Close Encounters of the Self Insertion Kind
by my-echo
Summary: When a pre college Heather goes for a poetic walk in the rain, something inexplicable occurs and she finds herself, of all things, knocking over a candelabra in Merik's lair.
1. The Meeting

**A/N: My "long-lost twin", Jordan (Jordie, sorry…covers head to avoid pitchforking), or MTL or MasqueradingThroughLife to those of you who are familiar with her FFnet or DBCA persona, dared me to write a self-insertion phic when I told her that all my previous attempts at writing phiction of that particular type had failed miserably. **

**Never one to pass up an intriguing dare, I laughed a bit and decided to give it a really good try…and suddenly I let my fingers tap out a rhythm of their own instead of trying so hard to be funny and random like I had before, and was truly, utterly amazed that I actually managed to begin writing something of this nature that was…coherent. **

**(Though I doubt that it's better than Jordie's, Adi's, Naomi's, Sam's, Misty's, or any other brilliant authoress that has managed to rock the phandom with their self-insertion genius.)**

**So, my age-discrepant Californian twin, this one's for you, since you started it. Again. :D**

**Lurve and brownies (and berry smoothies),**

**Echo**

**

* * *

**

The girl stared out of the rainy window, fingers to the beaded, dripping glass, fogged with her breath and nature's condensation.

_I tremble before your genius…your blackened madness of soul…my love for you is like the shadows in a dreary window, rain-spattered and shining…_

"Waxing poetic," she said to the grey, fogged afternoon beyond the glass. "Rainy days may do that to a person."

The outdoors looked enticing, for a moment. To walk amongst the falling, thundering droplets and raise her face lovingly to the weeping sky, hands stretched out in supplication, seemed like a poetically enjoyable idea.

"Wish I had a slicker," she murmured to the rain. "'T'would make things easier."

Nevertheless, she shrugged on a less protective jacket and raced out through the large back door, grinning at the wet, green, breathing _life_ around her, soaking up the much-needed moisture with relish.

"It seems like such a magic day," she whispered, raising her face to the sky and opening her mouth to catch a taste of sweet, melancholy bitterness, the tears of a polluted and crying world.

A roll of thunder came broiling through the saturated air, as the sky lit up with nature's pyrotechnics and the girl, without the slightest bit of warning, vanished.

* * *

"Vortex," she whispered, dizzying from the spinning, whirling colors, wondering if she was dreaming simply, or if her body had indeed been torn from earth's atmosphere and hurled throughout a continuum that defied all natural law with its slightly psychedelic starbursts and spinning, spinning world. 

"Help me," she gasped. "_Help me…_"

And the world went dark.

* * *

A mismatched eye glanced briefly through a spy-hole at the figure of a lithe, half-nude woman embracing the leading tenor, but the hole closed abruptly. He was tired of getting thrills from stolen looks. It made him feel like a guilty child. 

He glided down his passageways and poled himself through the depths, sighing and weary.

Disembarking, he slid to his organ and began to play a tune of such mourning, such depressive despair, that he nearly wept with the pain that covered him like an errant blanket.

_It is useless, worthless now. Never will I need to use such clandestine knowledge…never will I have to perform such acts…or even want to._

The last was a lie.

He did want to.

_But with whom? Who would accept such a one as me into their bed willingly? _

It was the old, worn-out argument, trite and thankless, and he blew it out as he would a melting candle, pushing it away and closing it up, like one of his skull-embossed envelopes bearing his seal.

He picked up a book, one of his favorites, and flipped through it, reading with half his attention, for his mind drifted elsewhere, flying through the skies to the one he loved so desperately, so painfully, that his soul nearly came loose from his body with the consuming fire of passionate, aching love.

_She is married. _

_It has been three days now._

Three days.

Three, miserable, horrible, detestable days.

Three days that had been like three hundred weary years.

_They_ had been wed almost at once. It had been in the paper, a short but scandalous paragraph about the strange rush of their unlikely courtship.

_Perhaps his family will not allow it. Perhaps the marriage will be annulled. Perhaps…_

His mind beat out an agonizing litany of "Perhaps," and his soul was drained, numb.

_I cannot live without my life…_

_I cannot live without my soul…_

He let the copy of _Wuthering Heights _fall from his fingers as he sat, broken.

_I should end it, someday. Caress my own neck with the loving embrace of the Punjab lasso…_

But he could not, so long as there was hope burning brightly in his breast that perhaps…perhaps…there would be something. God would be merciful. He would…

_God! _he scoffed, feeling like weeping all over again. _When was He ever merciful to me?_

_When did I begin to believe in His very existence?_

The answer slipped at the corners of his mind, like a writhing, elusive shadow, and as he reached his mental fingers out to grasp it, a noise was heard, a tremendous crash of clanging metal and the thick, glopping thud of splattered wax.

One of his immense candelabras had fallen over…

He refused to go and right it. He was too tired, and what did it matter? But it would sit there for days if he did not. He would probably slip on the wax and break his neck.

_Not such a terrible contemplation. But after all…there is some hope._

Grumbling under his breath, he stalked through the shadowy gloom to clean up the mess, when he stopped, stricken.

Standing there, looking horrified, was a wet, bedraggled girl, her hair hanging in soaked tendrils, and her extraordinarily odd clothes smeared with grime and wax.


	2. Let Me Count The Ways

**A/N: I failed to mention on here, though I did on the DBCA, that this Erik is, astoundingly, a Merik… (that's Michael Crawford!Erik, the original ALW stage Phantom, for those of you who aren't abbreviation-savvy)…since there are way, way too few of those kind of phics floating around these days, and I wanted to be unique. There are a few Leroux-ish references, but overall this Erik is completely MC's version.**

**ON a perfectly random note: Jordie gave me an ad. The dear.**

**So now I shall give her an ad.**

**Her phic is called _A Phangirl's Guide To Pestering An Erik_ and it is hi-la-ri-ous. Read it. Now.**

**And, in case you didn't know, I am a review junkie. I love reviews. See the widdle button at the bottom? Push it, please, and deposit your two cents, for it would make me ecstatically, delightfully, positively happy. **

**THANK you.**

**P.S. This chapter is rather stupid, even though nearly half of it was completely re-written and revised before I decided to be a brave girl and post the darn thing. (The DBCA girlies seemed to like it, so maybe it's not so bad...)**

* * *

The girl stared at the apparition, self-conscious of the ruined candelabra and the plethora of wax dripping from both it and her clothes onto the cold stone floor. 

"I can explain," she said, staring oddly at the shape of his fedora in the concealing shadows that masked his form.

"There is nothing to explain," he said in a rather deliciously menacing—and disturbingly familiar—voice that made her shiver. "You came into my home. You knocked over my candelabra."

"But…" she said.

"I would be delighted," he hissed, "to hear a most excellent reason as to why you are…"

"About to wet myself?" she asked.

"Invading my privacy," he said shortly.

There was silence for a moment.

"Well," whispered the girl. "I think I'm having a dream."

"I can assure you that you are not," said Erik brusquely. "Shall I prove it to you?" He hefted his Punjab lasso in his hands, caressing its length almost erotically.

The girl twitched a little. "Where…" she began to ask.

"Begin," said Erik abruptly. "Begin to explain yourself, and perhaps I shall spare your life."

The girl scrutinized his shadowy, dark form, hidden in the shadows. "You seem somewhat familiar…" she said cautiously. "Have you threatened me before?"

"EXPLAIN!" he roared.

The girl slipped and fell amidst the sticky, coagulating wax and fell squarely on her bottom.

"I can't," she gasped. "I don't even know what happened. I was staring out my window, see…"

"_What?_" snapped Erik.

"Let me finish!" snapped the girl, looking for all the world like a bristling, cornered cat. She bared her teeth.

Erik blinked.

"I was staring out my window…and I decided to go for a walk in the rain without a slicker, because I don't have one," babbled the girl, noting the menacing lack of movement that reminded her of one of Anne Rice's vampires. "And…"

"Mam'selle," said Erik, very softly, "get to the point or you _will_ feel the loving embrace of the Punjab lasso 'round your throat."

"Threatening me because I'm explaining something?" the girl bit out, more from fear than anything. "You sound like my…"

She froze, her lips slack, parted. "Did you say…_Punjab?_" she whispered breathily, staring at the shape of his fedora and shivering.

* * *

Erik blinked again. No one in all his roughly forty-five years had ever expressed a look reminiscent of predatory sexual desire when threatened with the Punjab lasso before. 

"Ah…" he began.

The girl let out a most undignified giggle.

Erik jumped back a step. "What is the matter?" he asked uneasily.

The girl held out a hand. "I'm Heather," she said dizzily, "and you are…" _Just to make sure…_

"A man who wishes not to be named," he said, regaining his composure and his stance.

_It's time to end this ridiculous banter._

"Haven't you heard?" he said grandly, menacingly. "I'm the _Opera Ghost!_"

He raised his arms and made his cape billow terrifically, intending to get a rare laugh out of seeing what he now thought must be an oddly dressed ballet rat get up from her highly undignified position on the floor and run slipping and sliding and screaming back through whatever passageway she had managed to find to get here in the first place.

He would close up said tell-tale passage then, of course, and then…

His attention was focused suddenly on the fact that the oddly dressed ballet rat was not running out of his lair screaming through whatever passageway she had managed to find to get here in the first place, but was in fact grinning stupidly.

His first reaction was to gape.

His second reaction was to wonder whether or not the oddly dressed ballet rat was… deficient in some way.

* * *

_It's Erik._

_It must be._

_What a lovely dream this is turning out to be…_

_But do I dream?_

She pinched herself.

_I'm…awake…_

_A heart…full…of love…_

She shook her head irritably.

_Enough with the Les Mis, honey-cakes. Time to see which incarnation of Erik you've stumbled upon._

_He's not a Gerik…he can't be. The fedora…and the voice…_

Although there was a momentary crushing blackness of disappointment, she reflected that it was actually for the best. Had he been a Gerik, then abstinence, decorum, and lots of other big words would have taken a flying leap out the metaphoric window and gone soaring with the birds.

Well. Not that they wouldn't with any other Erik. But it would have happened much more quickly.

Heather paused.

"Come into the light," she said softly, curiously, feeling a bit like Beauty and the Beast.

Aside from the fact that he had _not _just demanded that she promise to stay there forever—lamentably—and the fact that she did not have the over-proportioned and quite anatomically incorrect figure of all animated Disney heroines.

Erik paused, and then put one foot into the pool of light cast by the remaining candelabra, then the other, then, looming over her, revealed his full glory…

Unwieldy asymmetrical porcelain half-mask, dashing fedora, fake-looking wig, lovely silken cape, mismatched eyes, and all.

Heather gasped in delight. "You're Merik," she breathed dizzily, staring longingly at his swollen and misshapen lips.

She thought fondly of fellow Merik-lover Beth, for a fleeting second, who at that moment would have promptly fainted into his arms and no doubt made embarrassingly large drool-pools on his immaculate black sleeves.

Erik flinched. Surely she had just said his name—how in Punjab's name she knew that would be addressed in a moment—but…

He resisted the urge to dig his finger in his ear.

There had most certainly and inexplicably been an "M" at the beginning of it. Was it ear wax, or had she really said his name with an "M"?

"How," he said menacingly, disregarding the matter of the "M", "do you know Erik's name?"

"Ooh, so you're a _Le_Merik," Heather said, her dreamily delighted grin growing even ridiculously wider. "To quote the immortal Gershwins, ''S'wonderful'."

This time there was no doubt. It must be ear wax. Either that, or the wench was simply mentally deficient as he had first surmised.

His fingers twitched to dig themselves into his ears, but he resisted once again.

"What nonsense are you spouting, girl?" he snapped.

Heather bristled. "Never mind," she said. "It'd take too long to explain, and I unfortunately don't have any of the necessary materials that phans who fall through time and meet Erik always seem to have conveniently about their person."

"Pardon?" whispered Erik, wondering if he was going mad. Again.

"Don't worry, darling," Heather said kindly, "you're not going mad. You're confused, that's all."

Erik jumped as if he'd been poked with the tip of a Greek spear.

"Oh, if only Jordie was here to back me up and give you some proof…" sighed Heather. "Or any of the DBCA darlings, for that matter…"

Erik twitched a little. "D-B-C-A?" he asked cautiously, not liking the sound of it at all.

"The Dramatic Black Cloak Addicts," beamed Heather proudly. "I'm one of them."

Erik fought the urge to bolt to one of his trap-doors.

"Help me up, would you, love?" asked Heather plaintively. "I seem to be stuck."

Erik stared at her outstretched hand as if it were a serpent.

"Oi," said Heather, "aren't I supposed to be more afraid of you than you are of me? Or are you losing your touch?"

Erik's body stiffened. "With pleasure, mam'selle," he said softly through clenched teeth, grabbing her hand roughly and pulling her none too gently to her feet.

Her rear end, stuck tight, came abruptly free from the wax with a sucking, glopping sound, and inertia threw her straight into Erik's arms.

Erik staggered a bit, both from shock and the unfamiliar feeling of a female pressed against his body.

Heather smiled blissfully at him, patting his unmasked cheek with one hand and sighing.

"What…what are you doing?" he asked in a strangled tone, shivering at the contact.

"Hmm…" murmured Heather, in a daze of sorts. "Big lips…"

She reached up to touch them, but he swatted her hand away. "You're mad, girl."

"Maybe," she said. "But was Hannibal mad? Or Caesar? Surely Napoleon was the maddest of them all…"

"_What_?" Erik demanded, feeling more exasperated by this tormenting female enigma by the minute.

"Dreyfus," said Heather. "_The Pink Panther Strikes Again._ Herbert Lom kicks _arse._"

Erik blinked.

"That's it," he announced, pulling back and dropping her on the floor. "I've given up trying to make sense of your talk. I am convinced you are a hallucination."

"But I'm _not_," said Heather irritably. "There was no reason to drop me on the floor."

"Who are you?" pleaded Erik. "Why have you come to torment me?"

Heather picked herself up, brushing herself off a bit. _Good question. He goes to the head of the class…but meanwhile, I'm stuck trying to dredge up an explanation as to WHY, in heaven's name, I have been dropped into a fictional universe like an errant potato. _

"Maybe I'm here," she said, "to teach you how to live."

"Indeed," said Erik. "I think I'd rather die."

Heather's lip quivered, which made her immediately think of Ari.

"Or maybe," she said quietly, "I'm here because I need to learn something from _you_."

"Indeed," said Erik again. "I'm afraid my teaching days are over."

"Christine?" queried Heather softly, knowing it was a sore subject, depending on how early or late she'd come.

Erik flinched. "How did you know that?"

Heather sighed. "Got anywhere we could sit down?"

"The organ bench," he said, "though I don't recommend it. On such a small seat, two might be a very awkward number."

To Erik's immense disquiet, Heather grinned like a Cheshire cat.


	3. IN Which There Is A Cameo

**A/N: Just so all my readers know, my stories might not get updated too often in the near future, as I'm going off to college in less than a week and a half, and will have almost no time for such things, lamentably…(fights the urge to burst into tears)**

**But on a happier note, Jordie-dear guessed the song in Chapter 7 of TMQ, and so the latter half of this chapter is dedicated to her cameo…**

**

* * *

**

"Why are you grinning?" Erik asked, fighting the urge to shudder.

"Never mind," said Heather. "I was just thinking of how cozy it would be…you, me, the organ bench…"

"Why can't you simply begone?" moaned Erik.

Heather scuffed the floor with the toe of her wax-covered sneaker. "Maybe because I…have no idea of exactly _how _to go about being 'begone'?"

Erik swished his cape irritably.

Heather licked her lips.

"So anyway…" she said casually, her body quivering with the painful repression of a first-class glomp, "is that your organ?"

"Yes," he said. "What else would it be?"

"A piano with pipes?" queried Heather tremulously.

Erik was about to comment on how idiotic was her comment, but just then the thought occurred to him that an organ actually _was_ a sort of piano with pipes.

"May I…may I play it?" she asked shyly, barely able to control her glee. "I'm not very experienced, but I'm a total piano-demon and whenever there's a piano-like instrument around…"

"No one," he said, "touches my organ."

There was silence.

"Except me," he added.

There was more silence.

"Please tell me you're talking about the instrument," said Heather abruptly. "And by that I mean the musical kind."

Erik, confused for a moment, suddenly blanched. "You gutter-minded little snipe!" he snapped. "How dare you—"

"Organ jokes," Heather sighed to herself, managing to at least be slightly ashamed at herself for indulging in such things. "Aminta," she added in a normal voice, "would be proud as punch."

Erik was immediately through with his blustering. "Aminta?" he asked incredulously.

"I know what you're thinking," said Heather. "Isn't it a coincidence that I know someone with the same name as one of the principal characters in your opera _Don Juan Triumphant_?"

She paused for effect.

"Actually," she admitted, "it's no coincidence at all. She took the name from self-same opera."

Erik's mouth opened and closed like a fish.

"And, might I add," said Heather, "she is extraordinarily obsessed with a rather unrealistically more physically attractive incarnation of yourself. Which is why she picked the name Aminta to be her pseudonym, of course."

Erik was so confused at this point that he literally felt his brain to be on the verge of exploding.

"As I was saying, before the organ jokes," sighed Heather, "whenever there's a piano-like instrument around, I get this urge. Sometimes my fingers literally start twitching. I simply _have_ to try it out. It's just this…quirk of nature…that I have…"

"The answer is still a most emphatic 'no'," snapped Erik, recovering slightly from his near-fatal brain-explosion. "You might break the keys."

"So?" Heather retorted. "Even if I did, which is so highly unlikely in the first place that it's ridiculous, you could just swindle more money from the managers in order to get it fixed."

"A waste," he replied. "And how is it that you know so much about me and my _modus operandi_, at any rate?"

Heather looked at him.

"That," she said softly, "is a matter for which I have no proof. You wouldn't believe me if I told you, and I wouldn't blame you in the slightest."

"Nevertheless," he replied, "I would like to know."

"Why? Your curious nature?" she projected.

"Slightly," he said. "Much as I abhor admitting it, the puzzle of your origins…intrigues me."

Heather brightened considerably at this and was about to reply, when a great boom sounded, followed by yet another clang and glop-thud of wax.

Erik clapped his hands to his head, suddenly captive to a rather wild notion that the boom had been that of his exploding brain.

Heather stared oddly at the place where the sounds had erupted. "Is that…"

"Relief," sighed Erik, letting out his breath with a hiss and removing his hands from his head. "My intellect remains intact."

"But…" Heather began. Erik twitched his Punjab lasso in her direction, and she fell silent.

"Fine," she said. "I'll just go check for myself…"

"I shall come with you," he said abruptly. "It is my house, after all…"

"You call a hidey-hole cave with lots of candles and instruments and sheet music by an underground lake a house?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

He stopped, miffed. "Of sorts," he said in a slightly defensive tone.

Heather shrugged. "Your call, love." She peered into the darkness…

And was immediately hug-tackled to the ground. "ECHO!" crowed a conspicuously sugar-high female voice.

"How the…" yelped Heather with both unmitigated shock (she had a propensity to startle extraordinarily easily) and unbridled glee. "JORDIE!"

Erik flinched backwards, his mismatched eyes widening. The sight of two decidedly oddly dressed females capering madly around his lair chanting, for no apparent reason, "Aha, aha, aha!" was certainly a sight to behold.

"You nearly gave me a heart-attack!" Heather yelled, dissolving into helpless laughter. "How did you…"

"The fates," said Jordie, "apparently decided to let me drop in. Or maybe the gods of phan-phiction. I dunno."

She tossed a large bag in the air with a flourish. "I bring," she said solemnly, "indisputable proof."

With a loud thud, the bag landed on the wax-covered floor.

Erik sighed. The waxy mess was twice as daunting with both candelabras overturned.

Jordie glanced in Erik's direction. "Is that..."

"Oh, yes," said Heather.

"SQUEEEEE!"

Erik, in spite of himself, gave a most undignified scream at being tackled to the ground by a whirling dervish of a girl wearing the jewelry of a gypsy woman.

"Woah," said Heather, staring, and trying not to giggle. "Erik actually…screamed."

"Makes you wonder…," said Jordie contentedly, from her comfortably snuggled position atop Erik's chest.

"I beg your pardon, madam," said Erik, "but…GET…OFF!"

Jordie complied rather reluctantly.

"Wish I had your courage," said Heather. "I've been holding back my glomps, meself."

"Why?" asked Jordie. "Are you telling me you don't remember attacking Gerik with wild abandon when he was tied up and helpless in le closet?"

"Yah," said Heather, blushing fondly at the memory. "But that was…_Gerik_. Merik is just so much more…dignified. Somehow I think he'd take to it less kindly."

"Meh," said Jordie. "I loff him anyway."

Erik looked from Jordie to Heather, wild-eyed. "Would either of you…care to explain to me—" he began, wincing and massaging his chest where Jordie had sat upon it.

"This, my dear," said Jordie, pulling a paperback novel from her bag, "is what started it all."

She thrust the novel into Erik's stunned hands.

His swollen lips mouthed the words of the title silently.

"You're joking," he said finally. "Either that, or I'm going mad. Again."

"Neither," said Heather. "Read it and weep. Literally. I did."

"And this," said Jordie, sweeping a hardcover novel from her bag with another flourish. "Loffly."

Erik took it wordlessly, his eyebrow arching.

"And don't forget _this_," she said grandly, grabbing with reverence the Original London Cast Recording and placing it on top of the two novels.

"What about…" said Heather.

"Oh," said Jordie, grinning. "This too, if ye'd like…" She placed atop it another cast recording, this time of the 2004 movie.

"Got the DVD?" queried Heather.

Jordie's face fell. "SPAMMIT!" she groused. "I forgot."

Erik whimpered slightly, staring at the various forms of Phantom media cradled in his arms.

Jordie patted his be-wigged head affectionately. "Don't be overwhelmed, love," she said kindly. "You'll be all right." She kissed his unmasked cheek and grinned when he stared at her as if she had corn growing out of her ears.

"That all the proof you need for now, Echo-dahlin'?" she said to Heather.

"Dam' good of you to bring all of it," said Heather. "Can you stay? Be tons more fun with two to torment him instead of only one…"

"Hmm…oh, spammit," said Jordie again. "_A Phangirl's Guide To Pestering An Erik_ would never get written if I _stayed_."

"Truly," said Heather. "Which would deprive the world of a great and noble work."

"Ha!" retorted Jordie. "My ego's going to be as big as California if this keeps up…"

She checked her watch suddenly. "Oh, berry smoothies! I'm late!" she breathed. "Gotta go."

Erik sighed with relief, though he was still royally confused and his brain still felt as though it might explode at any moment.

"Er…Jordie?" Heather said suddenly. "No CD player."

Jordie sighed with relief. "Thank heavens I've at least got _that_ in my bag," she said.

She pulled it out, along with a pair of earphones, and handed it to Heather, looking around. "Batteries included," she said. "Use them wisely."

"Shall," said Heather, saluting.

Jordie saluted back just as briskly. "Take care o' yourself," she said, giving Heather a bear-hug.

"Ribs…" gasped Heather. "My ribs…!"

Jordie let go. "Anything broken?"

"Nope."

"Good," she said matter-of-factly. "Well…I bid you and your loffly LeMerik a fond _adieu! _Or should I say _au revoir_?"

"The latter," said Heather. "There's bound to be another cameo chapter sooner or later."

Jordie grinned again, nodded at Erik, blinked her eyes and folded her arms a la _I Dream of Jeanie_, and disappeared in a very loud puff of smoke.

Erik fought the urge to let out a sigh to surpass all sighs. "Well," he said. "That was…intriguing."


	4. Keep Your Hand At The Level Of Your Eyes

**A/N: To all my lurkers, wonderful readers though you may be, indulge the review junkie/whore/lover and leave a short message, at the very least, if you would be so kind.**

**Thank you...um, kindly.**

* * *

Cheered by her e-buddy's previous appearance, Heather bounced over to Erik like a particularly energetic puppy. 

"Proof time," she said, grabbing the Phantom media and arranging it in chronological order atop his organ (er, pipe organ). "Allow me."

Erik's swollen lips twitched. He felt slightly sick.  
_I never knew female company could be so…excruciatingly nauseating._

"I want you to leave," he began, but Heather ignored him, jamming the earphones on his head with such speed and force that he was paralyzed in shock.

"What…what are these?" he asked nervously.  
"They're _earphones_," Heather said long-sufferingly, giving him a sideways glance. "Silly."

Erik ripped them off his head. "What is their purpose?" he demanded, shaking them in her face. One of them swung too far and smacked her squarely on the nose.

Heather yelped and jumped backward, rubbing ruefully at the offending olfactory body part. "Jerk," she sulked.

Erik flinched. "Jerk what?" He looked at the earphones dubiously. "Jerk them?" He pulled at them experimentally.

"You're a jerk."

"I'm…what?" he asked in confusion.

Heather sighed. "You're nasty. Despicable. Callous. Unkind. M…"

"I take your meaning quite clearly," said Erik sullenly. "It was an accident, by the way."

"Right," said Heather. "And you're my mother."

"Insolent wench," he snapped.

"Self-pitying wretch," she shot back. "At least _I_ don't crawl on the floor begging expressionlessly bug-eyed persons of the opposite sex to give me their undying love…"

Erik, once he had digested every particle of that particular sentence and realized that the insufferable whelp was not only insulting him, but Christine as well, snarled. "How dare you—" he hissed, long white fingers spasming for his lasso. "How dare—"

"I didn't mean it!" Heather yelped, jumping backward as he found what he was looking for. "I didn't mean it…okay, I did mean it about her buggy eyes and total lack of expression, but….oh, damn…"

He threw the lasso with surprising dexterity considering his highly-strung emotional state, and it hit its mark quite admirably.

Unfortunately for Erik's nerves, not to mention his already fragile ego, Heather's phannish reflexes were just as sharp as ever, and as every phan knows, one is a fool not to raise one's hand to the level of one's eyes when one is clearly about to be the object of a first-class Punjabbing.

Erik moaned and dropped the taut end, feeling a headache coming on.

Heather unwound the lasso from her wrist and throat irritably. "Temper," she said, shivering a bit at her close brush with death. "You know, I think you've got an overdeveloped sense of vengeance. It's going to get you into trouble someday…"

Erik grabbed the hardcover novel bearing the title _Phantom_. "I suppose if I read this, you'll go away."

"I doubt it," said Heather. "But if you're going to read the novels, you might want to start with the original." She handed him the paperback copy of _The Phantom of the Opera_.

Erik took it dubiously, staring at it as though it were a poisonous snake. "Indeed," he said weakly. "When was this written?"

"1910," said Heather. "And I quote, 'The events do not date more than thirty years back…'"

Erik sighed. "How much is correct?"

"For your version, some things. But your real clincher will be _that_." Heather pointed to the Original London Cast. "You might want to brace yourself. You're going to be hearing what sounds like your voice…"

"Excuse me?" Erik whispered.

"Never mind," Heather sighed. "If I tell you any more, your brain will explode."

"Quite," said Erik with a touch of sarcasm. "It's amazing how deftly you read my emotions."

Heather smirked smugly.

Erik rolled his eyes.

"Erm…" said Heather. "Where will I be staying?"

"You won't be," he said shortly.

Heather's lip quivered again.

"But…but…" she whispered, her large brown eyes going limpid with tears. _Oh dear Punjab, please don't let me turn into a Sue over this._

Erik snorted. "You…" He stopped. She _did_ look rather pathetic.

"You…" he began again, and stopped, once more, looking at her. A fat tear had spilled from its confines within one large brown eye and rolled mercilessly down the feminine cheek, making carefully applied mascara begin to smear precariously.

Heather sniffled. _Oh, great. All the writers in Christendom and beyond are going to flame me for being so blatantly Sue-ish…_

Erik sighed. "It would not be proper for you to stay…" he began.

"Oh, but it was proper for the bug-eyed fish, was it?" snapped Heather before she could stop herself.

Erik's eyes darkened, widened. "Bug-eyed fish?" he hissed dangerously. "If, by that charming epithet, you mean who I think you mean, you are…"

"I mean," said Heather quickly, "the lovely, talented semi-diva, whose hair curls like…"

"Stop," said Erik, sighing. "No more, please…"

Heather finished the sentence in her head. …_like the Poodle Ringlets of Doom…_

"I wish to avoid any more unpleasantness," said Erik shortly, "and I have no wish to kill a woman, much less a half-grown specimen such as yourself…"

Heather wondered, suddenly indignant, if he meant her tiny chest. She fought the urge to cover it defensively, racking her brain for an equally scathing retort.

Erik looked about for a suitable place for the wench to sleep. Besides the Louis-Philippe room.

It seemed there was no alternative. He couldn't simply make her sleep in the boat…

Well. He _could._ But he was ever a gentleman, even if the female in question was a pain in the proverbial buttocks.

He sighed. "You may sleep," he said, "in the Louis-Philippe room. Over there." He pointed.

Heather, once she got over her initial glee, grimaced a bit, wondering briefly if Christine's frilly and no doubt floral-scented underthings were still haunting the premises.

"It's going to be a long night..." she sighed.


	5. IN which the muses conference

**A/N: Thanks dear ones. I must tell you I crave feedback. I crave it like Kay!Erik craves morphine. Sooo...to all my darling lurkers out there, please, pret-ty please REVIEW!**

**A note: This chapter, as you might have inferenced from the title,has nothing to do whatsoever with Merik and Heather. However, it is an important plot bunny, so read carefully.**

* * *

Quinn was angry.

His authoress had vanished, his face was showing premature signs of age, and, to top it all off, there was a rather conspicuous mustard-stain on his favorite kilt.

"Bloody 'ell," he muttered, slipping into his native accent, which was usually not very pronounced, for no particular reason other than the authoress sucks at writing out Scottish accents.

"A fitting phrase," said Leroux!Erik, legs stretched out to their full glorious length from his position atop Heather's battered pink armchair. "It's dreadfully inexplicable, but Erik almost misses the torment she inflicts upon the lot of us."

"Stop speaking in third person," snapped Disney!Beast, his tail twitching with irritation. "It's ridiculous."

"Erik speaks however he wishes," snapped Leroux!Erik. "Though I only use third person when I'm feeling exceptionally moody."

Louis de Pointe du Lac sighed, looking, as always, an artful glimmer in the dark. "You know…"

"Technically," said Basil Rathbone!Holmes, "you are not even supposed to be here, my dear Louis."

"I'm her muse as much as the rest of you…" he began.

"Anne Rice forbids your presence on FanFiction dot Net," continued Holmes. "My dear fellow, haven't you read the TOS?"

Louis shrugged beautifully and disappeared in a whoosh of dark color.

"Ah, Echo…Erik does wonder where she's gone," said Leroux!Erik almost mournfully.

"Why bother wondering?" snarled the Beast. "She's always so _difficult!_"

"Ask our charming girl's younger brother," said Holmes. "He may be able to shed some light on the subject."

"Are you daft?" snapped Erik. "The boy hates the very sight of me. He tried to kill me with a pitchfork last week, you know…"

"Wait a moment," said Holmes, stiffening. "Wait just…a…moment…"

He walked to the window, staring outside. "There's an odd hole in the ground. A residue of color is swirling almost imperceptibly 'round its base."

Quinn, ever the quiet one of the group, simply raised one very dark and handsome eyebrow.

"Talk sense, you silly ass," snapped Erik.

"Kindly do not resort to name-calling, my dear Erik," said Holmes quite calmly. "As I said before, there is…"

"Make your point," Beast growled.

"Obviously, our dear Echo is missing, correct?" asked Holmes.

Erik rolled his eyes. "What is that charming modern phrase she uses so often? 'Duh?' "

"And she was going for a walk in the rain before she disappeared, is that not also so?" queried Holmes, ignoring Erik's patronizingly insulting attitude.

"True," said Quinn cautiously. "Or so it says in 'er diary…"

"If she knew we were reading her diary, she would no doubt skin us alive," said Holmes fondly. "However, what she does not know cannot hurt her in the slightest."

"Get to the _point!_" Beast snarled. "Or I'll…" He brandished his claws wickedly.

Holmes, completely unruffled by this barbaric display, continued smoothly, "It appears that there has been a vortex. And our dear Echo, we may safely assume, has been inexplicably drawn inside."

"How cahn you possibly knoo—" Quinn began.

"It's obvious," sighed Beast resignedly. "He's _Sherlock Holmes. _He always knows."

Quinn sat back, slightly miffed.

Erik made a discontented noise in the back of his throat, obviously ill at ease that Sherlock's genius had won out over his own.

"And it is our task," said Holmes, "to ensure her safe return."

Beast laughed, a short bark of sorts. "Why? Why not simply allow her a…vacation?"

"Normally, I'd agree wholeheartedly," muttered Erik, "but, much as it pains to admit, I am rather…worried."

"Second that," said Quinn.

"Notwithstanding his status as the only original muse in this entire group, I'd say Quinn's opinion clinches the matter, since he makes the sentiment nearly mutual." Holmes said smoothly. "The only one who disagrees, apparently, is Beast."

Beast sighed, and closed his eyes tightly, his body beginning to shift and convolute.

"Oh, no…" muttered Erik. "Hide my Punjab lasso. Erik is afraid he'll do something that will make his authoress very angry…"

Well-said, for Beast had morphed into his rarely used form, used only three times in all his service as Heather's muse. It was the form of the tall, broad-shouldered, and very foppish-looking unnamed prince.

Erik's fingers spasmed. "Lasso…" he gasped. "My lasso…"

Holmes grabbed it and stuffed it under the bed when Erik wasn't looking.

Now in a calmer and more docile mood owing to his decidedly androgynous state, the prince said calmly, his large blue eyes collected and clear, "I agree with Holmes' statement. We should go after her."

"Well," said Holmes, "that's settled."

"Indeed," said Erik. "Pity the vampires can't join us."

"I thought you disliked 'em," said Quinn.

Erik shrugged. "Preternatural strength and odd abilities might be useful in dire circumstances."

"I concur," said Holmes. "Lestat de Lioncourt's mind-scanning would be most helpful. Unfortunately, the TOS is quite clear."

"Bugger it," muttered Quinn. "Why don't we just say to 'ell with the TOS—"

"Because, my dear Quinn, Echo would be removed from FFNet if we did," Holmes countered evenly.

Quinn sighed. "Better go change mah kilt."


	6. Of Pipe Organs and Homophobics

**A/N: I posted this on DBCA first, and said that the first person besides Jordie to get the Opera Wench joke would get a cameo. Eriksmistress (eriksangelofvoice on here) got it, so she'll be getting her cameo soon. Butto be fair, since many of you have never heard of the DBCA and/or have never visitedaforementioned site in your life, the offer still stands...**

**

* * *

**

Michael Crawford!Erik massaged his temples.

He stared at the novel in front of him, daring his fingers to turn yet another disturbing page, but even the thin paper had begun to feel like lead.

Heather, in the main grotto, was inching towards the organ.

"Don't you dare," said Erik from within his room.

Heather stumbled over her own feet and caught herself by landing smack on the keys.

A horridly discordant sound erupted, proving irrevocably that untrained fingers should never dare to have a try at Erik's organ.

When the sound had died down, Heather, her face white as a sheet, looked over and up slowly, eyes tracing inch by inch the impressive black-clad frame standing centimeters from her nose.

"M…eep?" she whispered.

* * *

Back in Pennsylvania, the muses were clustered around the floating colorful ribbon-shapes hovering above the lightning-struck hole.

"Here is the vortex," announced Holmes. "Or rather, a residue of such."

"And you are suggesting that we…jump through it?" asked Leroux!Erik dubiously.

Quinn, looking resplendent in a brand spanking new tartan kilt, pursed his lips and rubbed irritably at the lovely stubble that there had been no time to shave off.

"You look fine," said Louis sensually, seemingly appearing out of nowhere and managing to scare the living daylights out of everybody. "Beautiful, in fact."

"Louis!" snapped Holmes.

The emerald-eyed vampire sighed mournfully. "Ah, cruel mortals, as you wish…" He disappeared from sight, but not before planting a very cold kiss on Quinn's cheek, which left the Scottish muse looking as though a serpent had just bitten him.

The unnamed and quite foppishly handsome Disney prince shook himself, morphing back into Beast shape and shaking his shaggy horned head. "They never learn," he growled. "Always popping up when they aren't needed…"

"He is needed," said Holmes calmly. "Unfortunately, we have already discussed the whys and the wheretofores of his not being allowed to help."

Erik shivered, staring at the place where Louis had disappeared. "Just as well," he whispered. "Flits both ways, that one does. He…"

"Kahndly don't remind me," muttered Quinn. He shook himself, rubbing violently at his cheek as if to get rid of a particularly nasty mustard-stain.

"I don't particularly agree with that sort of thing myself," muttered Holmes, grimacing slightly, "but we're most likely going to be the cause of the authoress receiving an awful lot of flames if we go any farther on that subject, and she loves Louis and Lestat dearly at any rate no matter what their…er…. 'orientation'…happened to be whilst they were mortals, so shall we desist?"

"Always on her side, aren't you?" Erik grumbled.

Holmes smiled sycophantically. "My dear fellow, it's what I do. I look out for other people's welfare."

"Hmph," grunted Erik. "Well…last one in's a rotten egg…"

He promptly prepared himself for a leap when Holmes grabbed his skeletal hand. "My dear fellow," he whispered urgently, "have you considered that if we don't all go in at once, we might end up _at different places?_"

Erik paused. "As a matter of fact," he said silkily. "I hadn't."

Holmes waited.

There remained a pregnant silence.

Holmes sighed. "I don't get a thanks, do I? Well, well…chivalry is dead after all. A pity…"

Erik twitched. "Grr…" he growled, widening his eyes and making odd gestures with his hands, attempting to make Holmes flinch. It would be worth it, after all.

"Bug off, Erik. That's my job," snapped the Beast, gazing with distaste at Erik's "claws."

"I 'ate to interrupt," said Quinn, "and even more tae bring this up, but…ah guess we should all hold hands when we jump…"

Every muse twitched, even Holmes, though his was barely perceptible.

"A good thing," whispered Erik, shivering, "that those blasted vampires aren't here."

"Quinn is right, my dear fellow," said Holmes briskly. "If we're going to end up in the same place, we must cast aside our homophobic tendencies and grin and bear it."

He promptly, and in a most dignified fashion, grabbed Quinn's hand, who shut his eyes tightly, gritting his teeth and trying not to mutter nasty Scottish curses.

Beast, forgetting to sheath his claws, grabbed Holmes' other hand, making the great detective wince sharply with pain, at which Erik smiled smugly.

Quinn looked at Erik, grimaced, and slowly, as if about to handle a disgusting slime-mold, stretched out his flinching hand.

Erik sighed, shaking his head. "All for one," he muttered. "And one for all…"

"Stop stealing lines from movies!" snapped the Beast.

"It was a book first, you horned twit," groused Erik, grimacing and gingerly grabbing the very tips of Quinn's fingers, looking for all the world like Heather picking up a pair of her brother's boxers that had accidentally got mixed in with her laundry. "And I'll have you know…"

"Quiet," said Holmes. "One…two…three…"

They held their breath (goodness knows why) and jumped.


	7. Enlighten Me

**A/N: Sorry I've been gone so long! Broken computers and engagement chaos don't really mix to create a good authoress atmosphere. Beth, my dear, your cameo is coming. Never fear.**

**Hope y'all enjoy this chapter.**

* * *

"Mmph! Mm-mmph!" groused Heather from behind her thick gag.

Erik paid her no heed whatsoever. After all, what harm could she possibly cause to his organ when bound most firmly to a chair?

Heather glared at him. Sexy forty-five-year-old deformed genius or not, _this_ was completely inexcusable.

But he _was _a LeMerik.

* * *

The muses catapulted into a strange, small room with burgundy carpet and curtains. Two lofted beds were on either side, with desks underneath…and…and…

"_There _you are," snapped Echo, who was typing away furiously on her roommate's laptop. "Took you long enough to figure it out, didn't it?"

Leroux!Erik opened his mouth and closed it again. "But…the vortex…where in Punjab's name _have _you brought Erik and the rest of this motley crew?" he snarled.

"Calm," said Echo. "You must remain calm, my dear. Phantom brownies are brewing in the oven."

The muses sniffed the air. Sure enough, there was the familiar gooey delicious scent.

"Meet the new muses," said Echo, gesturing to the bunkbeds, whereupon sat Edward Scissorhands and…Riga…Rigoletto?

"Rigoletto," affirmed Echo. "Yes. Now hush and pay attention…"

Holmes glanced at Rigoletto. "You have a plastic deformity," he said. "It is most unconvincing."

Rigoletto, half of whose face was, indeed, unconvincingly plastic and white, with little pockmarks and scars—all the trappings of a low-budget deformity, and, contrary to what some 2004 POTO movie-bashers might think, MUCH cornier than Gerik's Sunburn of Doom—sniffed rather haughtily. "For your information," he said, "I'm the most hideous thing that ever walked the earth." He bowed his head in shame.

There was a dangerous cough.

Rigoletto's eyes shifted to meet Leroux!Erik's yellow-eyed blazing stare. "Oh," was all he managed to say.

"You fail to answer the question," said Inigo to Echo. "Hwhere are we?"

"Idaho," said Echo, typing a few more sentences onto the laptop. "Rexburg, Idaho."

"_What?_" chorused all the old muses together.

"But…ya vanished…withou' a trace…we thought…" stammered Quinn.

"I went to college, my dears, and before I realized it, I had rushed to catch my plane and I regrettably forgot to say goodbye," said Echo. "And I couldn't very well take you all on the plane with me, now, could I?"

Erik sniffed. "You could have called," he said sullenly. "Or…summoned us or something."

"How was Echo s'posed to do that?" muttered sweet Edward, clacking his scissors mournfully.

The muses shifted from foot to foot, thinking hard.

"Oh well," sighed Quinn.

"The vortex was a rather lucky accident, actually," said Echo. "I'm writing a self-insertion phic. My fictional self fell through it, and somehow it seems that it managed to manifest itself to you guys, since…well…you're all fictional."

There was a long pause.

"Truly you have a dizzying intellect," said Holmes.

"Wait 'til I get going," retorted Echo, predictably.

Erik grabbed her pink cellphone from the desk and opened it. "I didn't know you had…" Suddenly he froze. His eyes burned. His mouth hung slack. His lack-of-nose looked hollower and more skeletal than ever.

"_Who…_" he breathed. "…is _this?_"

He shoved the cellphone under Echo's nose, letting all see the picture of her cuddling with a slightly boyish-looking, light-haired, _extremely_ adorable and glomp-inducing male personage.

"Don't worry, Erik-darling," said Echo, snatching it. "He's not an ickle Raouly-kins or anything of _that _sort, if that's what's bothering you. As if, anyway. He's a real, living person, and his name…is Jacob."

Edward smiled. "Jacob's nice," he said succinctly. "Don't worry."

Rigoletto huffed. "Well, he was the cause of Echo's creating _me_, at any rate," he said.

"I hadn't seen _Rigoletto _since I was about ten years old," said Echo fondly, "and we rented it from the library. Just got the urge after that to make my own Rigoletto muse…and I finally got around to it today."

"Fascinating," said Erik dangerously, "but just _what _is your relationship with this boy?"

"Jacob is 22," said Echo. "And very sweet."

Erik snarled.

"Fine," snapped Echo. "He and I are romantically involved. Satisfied?"

Erik looked as though he were going to explode.

The Beast, who had been silent this whole time, sheathed and unsheathed his claws. Repeatedly.

Quinn looked hugely uncomfortable. He had been planning to give Echo a ginormous kiss upon seeing her again, but it appeared as though that wouldn't be allowed anymore under her scrupulous conventions involving completely monogamous relationships.

Holmes, however, was delighted. "You at last have landed a _beau?_ A boyfriend? A significant other?"

"Yep," said Echo vaguely, typing a few letters absently on the laptop. "Sure."

"He's not just her boyfriend anymore," said Edward, his innocent, childlike truth-telling impulse overpowering him completely. "He hasn't been for a month."

Echo froze. "Thanks, Edward," she muttered. "They're gonna kill me."

Edward's lips pinched. He brandished his scissors.

All the muses, _sans_ Rigoletto who was sitting safely on the opposite bunk, took three steps back from the frightful blades.

"I'm engaged to him, for Heaven's sakes, all right?" said Echo. "I'm marrying him in December. In Washington, D.C."

There was dead silence.

The Beast, who had still been silent this whole time, roared, at his loudest, "_WWWWWWHAATTT?_"

* * *

Heather, meanwhile, had succeeded in removing the gag from her mouth by some expertly executed tongue-and-teeth gymnastics.

"You know—" she said through clenched teeth, while attempting awkwardly to free herself from her bonds.

At that moment, however, there was another clang, and—you guessed it—yet another glop-thud of wax.

Erik's eyes bugged out of his head. "Oh, no," he breathed. "Not another one—"

"Too late," said a young female voice, and a cloak swirled in the shadows, followed by the gleam of an exact copy of Merik's porcelain mask.

"Michael Crawford!Erik, I presume?" the voice queried, rather tremulously.

"The same," said Heather.

There was, quite predictably, a squee of Biblical proportions, followed by another of Erik's most undignified shrieks.


End file.
